


Shitsgiving

by rockafansky



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Craigslist Thanksgiving Date AU, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, Romantic Comedy, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 03:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockafansky/pseuds/rockafansky
Summary: Ironically, Clove only started feeling better about spending the holidays with her family when she began to sink faster and further towards rock bottom.





	1. Simple Minds

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this legendary post: https://www.dailydot.com/unclick/felon-offers-himself-as-thanksgiving-date-on-craigslist/  
> Thanks for reading.

Hating your family is a normal thing teenagers do, but Clove never really grew out of it. She was nineteen, and she hated her family, and then she was twenty-one, and she still hated her family. And at the respectable but unworldly age of twenty-three, she hated her family more than ever. They had always expected way too goddamn much of her, and she was currently very busy not living up to all of these unfair expectations.

It had been like this for as long as Clove could remember, but at age twenty-three, it was at its worst. At twenty-three, they expected her to have a steady job and a five-year plan, not a part-time gig supervising inventory in the back of a Target warehouse as she pursued the Sisyphean labors of a starving artist. At twenty-three, they expected her to be in a serious relationship, not to still be recovering from a devastating breakup that had happened while she was hating her family at age twenty-two. At twenty-three, they expected Clove to have her life together. And frankly, she just wasn’t there yet.

Thanksgiving is probably the worst time of year to be a young person who does not have their life together. Clove knew this at age nineteen, and at age twenty-one, and at all the ages in between. She would sit at that stupid fucking table in her paternal grandparents’ stupid fucking dining room and be scrutinized maliciously from every stupid fucking angle, while at the same time, her perfect sister Carver would be lauded for every trivial little thing she’d accomplished since June. When the announcement came that Great Aunt Etna would be flying down from Saskatchewan to join in on this pointless goddamn American holiday, Clove had a sinking feeling that this Thanksgiving was going to be her worst one yet.

Ironically, Clove only started feeling better about spending the holidays with her family when she began to sink faster and further towards rock bottom. No longer possessing enough money to keep living alone in her dingy apartment, Clove turned to Craigslist in search of a roommate, and surfaced with something much, much better.

_It’s Thanksgiving. Want to skip that long, insulting conversation about how you’re still single? About how your parents really want grandchildren? Well, look no further!_

_I am a 28 year old felon with no high school degree, and a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen’s guitar. I can play anywhere between the ages of 20 and 29 depending on if I shave. I’m a line cook and work late nights at a bar. If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in a very long or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game._

Clove had to Google Eddie Van Halen and that lurid striped guitar to really get the picture in her mind. She wasn’t disappointed in the least. The search results gave her a pretty clear idea of what this guy was all about. And oh fucking lord was it perfect. There was a whole mess of replies underneath the post. God, she had to snatch this guy up before someone else did.

And so she hit _reply_. Sent the original poster a brief message, which was miraculously reciprocated with a brief reply, and the two agreed to a brief meeting the very next day. This was preferable, because it did not give Clove a lot of time to think about what she was doing, or who this dude was, what kind of crimes he’d committed. Yes, having a lot of time to consider these things would be a bad idea.

Clove would have to drive into Nashville regrettably early to meet this guy, but she did her best to convince herself it would be worth it to get to know a little more about the man she was going to fake-date before jumping right into it. And so she was off.

After walking into two different Starbucks establishments, neither of which was the one she’d made plans to meet him at, and startling a green-haired punk so badly he’d spilled his coffee, she finally stumbled upon the right location, spotting the garishly painted van parked outside. It was every bit as awful as she’d hoped it would be. Hopefully, the man who drove it here was the same way. However, another part of her hoped he’d be more pleasant. Especially since she had arrived twenty minutes later than they’d originally planned.

 _Ironic that_ I’m _the late one._ thought part of her.

 _Why? Just because he’s a felon doesn’t mean he’s not punctual._ thought another part.

And sure enough, there he was, sipping a pink smoothie through a long straw. Mercifully, she could immediately tell it was him. Either the guy had taken great lengths to dress exactly like his profile picture, or he really did wear black studded jeans and old band T-shirts all the time. This particular shirt was ripped off at the shoulders, revealing two tattoo sleeves spattered with words and phrases inked in unintelligible fonts. He topped off the look with a pair of thick-framed glasses and the beginnings of a scruffy beard that matched the straw-colored hair on his head. Clove noted with some admiration that his earlobes were stretched to fit a pair of almost comically large neon plugs. And, in all of his metal studs and ripped clothes glory, he looked like someone her parents would move to the other side of the street to avoid.

In short, he was perfect.

With a tall black coffee in hand from one of the other locations she’d mistakenly walked into, she sat down across from him. He glanced up, and to her relief, the look on his face wasn’t one of irritation. Which was good, because once she was in front of him, she realized for the first time that he towered over her. Ah, to have a relationship with a height difference. It was something she missed about her last boyfriend, reaching up to throw her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to kiss him…

“…Right?” The man in front of her had been saying something. Clove blinked.

“Sorry, what?” She felt like she’d just been underwater.

After a moment of confusion, the guy was surprisingly patient. “You’re kind of late. You’re Clove Mallon, right?”

Clove nodded. “Yes. And I, uh, never got your name.”

“Hah, yeah, I try not to include that in my profiles.” Huh. For a high school dropout, he was awfully careful about what he put online. “It’s Cato.” He was also pretty cute. For a felon, Clove corrected herself quickly.

“Cato.” She sounded it out, trying to loosen up. “Hm, Cato and Clove. Sounds nice. I can tell we’re going to be a power couple.” A touch of sarcasm seemed to help counter the ridiculousness of the situation, and the man sitting across from her appeared to relax as well.

“Good. But listen, I do have the one condition.” Cato held up a finger. “It’s a platonic arrangement, our date next week. If I’d just wanted to get laid this Thanksgiving, I’d have stuck that in my profile. So you’re going to have to try your hardest not to fall in love with me.”

Clove let out a nervous laugh. “Ah, I don’t think I’ll have a problem with that.” she said without thinking. “Wait! Shit. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“No worries.” Cato set down his empty smoothie cup. He didn’t seem too offended. “I know I’m kind of a mess, but I’ve been told I wear it well.”

 _He wears it well?_ Clove thought. _What’s he saying, that he thinks the Van Halen van—and all the awful thing represents—suits him?_

Cato gave an easy smile. “So, now that we’ve gotten the initial awkwardness out of the way, can we make some plans for next week?”

“Talking about our future already.” Clove said, regaining some confidence. “And next week you’re going to meet my parents. We’re moving awfully fast.”

“That’s how our relationship rolls.” Cato replied with a gleam in his eyes. “Especially with what I have in mind for our first Thanksgiving together.” This sounded promising to Clove. Maybe this was the right decision after all.

“I’d love to hear the details.” She leaned forward in her seat.

“Let’s get down to business, then.” Cato grinned, folding his tattooed arms. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. First off, I’d love the chance to tell your parents all about myself.”

At this, Clove deflated slightly. “Hm. Seems a bit lame.”

“Oh, no, it’s anything but.” Cato promised her. “You read my original post. I figure the reality of it all’s at least bad enough to jar them a little. I think it’s best to ease them in slowly. You know, before the real shitstorm begins.”

“So you weren’t lying about the whole felon thing.” Clove said. “You’ll tell them that?”

Cato thought about it for a moment. “Sure. I could bend the truth about what I did. Make it worse, if you want. How does vehicular homicide sound?”

Clove paused. “What did you really do?”

The man’s expression sobered for a moment, though in his words he remained as casual as ever. “I had a bit of a problem with anger, back in the day. Cracked someone across the face real good in a bar fight, broke his nose. And uh, dislocated his shoulder. He wasn’t too happy with me after that.” Cato laced his fingers together in front of him, a number of rings clinking against each other as he did it.

A quiet “Wow.” escaped from Clove’s mouth before she could stop it. “I don’t actually think you have to expand on that too much.”

Cato raised a blond eyebrow. “Huh. I see your family has a low threshold for what’s considered shocking.”

“Honestly, I think the earrings alone would be enough.” she admitted, noticing that a class ring was not among the jewelry on his hands. “But keep going, you seem like you have more ideas.”

Cato cleared his throat. “That I do. I can also openly hit on other female guests while you act like you don’t notice.”

Clove hummed. “I like that. So not only am I dating a violent felon—no offense—but our relationship is also dysfunctional to the point where I’m ignoring everything you do to try and salvage what we’ve got.”

“What can I say?” Cato quipped, winking. “I’m just worth it.”

Clove smiled. “What else have you got?”

The line cook sat back in his chair. “Alright, how about this? I have a knack for starting heated discussions about politics. Or religion. Or both.”

“Got a sample?”

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Don’t even tell me their affiliation, I’d like to figure that out as I go.” He was obviously as excited about this as she was. It seemed like he’d put a lot more thought into their arrangement than she’d expected him to.

“I see you enjoy a challenge.” Clove pointed out.

Cato shrugged his inked-up shoulders. “To be honest, it’s not as hard as you might think. Can we talk substance abuse for a second?”

“I like where this is going.”

“I can pretend to be really drunk towards the end of the night. Like, stone-cold shitfaced speaking-in-cursive drunk. That sound like something your parents would appreciate?”

“Sounds ideal.”

He nodded. “Okay. Good. But I should probably give you a heads-up, before we do this.”

“Sure. What?”

“The thing is, I don’t actually drink.” Cato stretched, bumping his smoothie dangerously close to the edge of the table. “But don’t worry about it. I used to. A lot. Too much, really. So I know the drill.”

“Oh.” Clove blinked. The next thing she knew, a short silence had settled, which was the last thing she wanted. After a moment and a short cough, she offered, “If you want, you can pour whatever you’ve got into that gross beige carpet as an extra little ‘fuck you’.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Cato nodded, rewiring his plan. “That’s great. Man, you have no idea how hard it is to just keep spitting it into your hand.”

Reassured, Clove let out a laugh. “Or if you want, we can trade glasses under the table when we need to. I can take it. Mallon family Thanksgivings are a lot more bearable under the influence.”

“Hm, I think you’re gonna want to be sober for this next part.” Cato said. “Because you might have to pull me off of someone.”

Clove stared at him, her smile gone. “Wait, whoa. Are you talking about—”

“A legit, physical fight? Yes.”

“With one of my relatives?” The thought of colossal Cato in a brawl with her Great Aunt Etna was almost unbelievable.

“Who else? I can either do it in the house or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see. Up to you.” For all he was saying to her, the man in front of her seemed awfully nonchalant. Had he done this before?

“I don’t know…” Clove grimaced. “Maybe that’s a bit much, on top of everything else.”

Cato shrugged. “That’s fine. We can pocket the idea for now.”

Clove nodded, considering it. “Yeah, I think getting fake-hammered seems like an acceptable way to end the night.” she said after a while. “Hey, what if they have to carry you out? That’d be funny.”

“Or I could propose to you.”

Clove almost choked on her coffee. “What?!”

“Go big or go home, Clove Mallon from Craigslist.” Cato told her, swirling his straw around his empty cup. “Go big or go home.” There were a few specks of pink smoothie dotting the collar of his _Simple Minds_ T-shirt.

Clove laughed nervously. “I don’t know. I almost prefer the fight.”

“Well, think of it this way—” Cato put the cup down so he could gesture. “With this move, we’d steal the show for sure. And you really can’t go wrong with your answer. You say hell yeah, you want to be Mrs. Bailor, and you’ve got a pissed-off family. You say _no_ , and you’ve got a pissed-off piss-drunk me. It’s a very versatile strategy, popping the question after a night like that.”

Clove could see what he meant, and she had to admit, imagining both scenarios gave her too much satisfaction to want to waste the opportunity.

“Okay, then.” she agreed. “Let’s add it to the list.”

Cato tapped the side of his head. “Noted.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this free of charge.” Clove shook her head. “You could make a killing around the holiday season. Plenty of girls in Nashville are dying to torment their parents like this.”

Cato shrugged. “I’m just out here to have a good time, Clove. And for the free meal. My Thanksgiving dinners are usually absolute shit.”

Clove raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you a cook?”

“The food is not the problem.”

Clove looked at the man sitting across from her. “I see.” she said. His quiet amusement was unwavering. “So you’re just trading one shitty Thanksgiving for another? Where’s the logic in that?”

“Excellent question, my dear non-girlfriend.”

“And the answer?”

At that, Cato shot her another grin. “There is none.”


	2. Eddie Van Halen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cato and Clove put their plan into action with...well, results.

If one more person asked Clove about her paintings, she was going to snap. The reason for this being that Clove was not a painter at all. Not in the least. She was a sculptor, if they wanted to get technical, but with little success to speak of in that field, there wasn’t even much point in correcting them about that.

Worse was usually the discussion of Clove’s love life, but not this year. This year, Clove had answers for them. Largely falsified answers, but they were more than enough to satisfy.

“So, who is this mysterious plus one Clove’s invited?” Carver teased as they set the table. Her own plus one, the bespectacled husband Clove was convinced had never spoken a word in front of her, already had an established seat at said table. Clove was certain Cato would earn his tonight.

“Oh, someone very special.” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I see.” Carver said. “Well, whoever he is, he’s late. Or is it another girl?”

“Guy. My new boyfriend.” Rather than letting her sister get to her, Clove let her smile show.

“A new boyfriend!” Keith, the only cousin Clove could remotely stand to be around, appeared the in the doorway. “Lucky you!” Keith had always come alone to Thanksgiving, ever since the year he decided it was time to bring his own boyfriend along. It hadn't been the best idea. Clove and her cousin had always sympathized with each other, standing as the family’s two favorite targets.

“What’s his name?”

“Cato.” Clove threw in what she hoped was a lovestruck sigh.

“Ooh, is he Italian?”

“Uh, I don’t _think_ so.”

“Why would he be Italian?” Carver rolled her eyes. “Cato’s not an Italian name. It’s Latin.”

“That’s what they used to speak in Italy!” Keith protested.

“Sure, back in _ancient_ _Rome_.”

Clove was relieved. Keith and Carver’s squabble protected her from having to answer any more questions about Cato. There was so much they hadn’t discussed over coffee. What if their answers were different?

Eventually, the fight was cut off by the doorbell. Which rang again, and again, and again, as if whoever was on the other side was pushing it repeatedly until someone answered the door. That’s when Clove knew that her plus one had arrived.

“That must be him!” she said, leaving Carver and Keith’s confused faces behind her.

She swung open the door to reveal the line cook, in his ripped jeans and a creased _Adam and the Ants_ T-shirt that looked like it had been sitting at the bottom of his laundry bin for weeks. He’d spiked up his hair for the occasion, and worn his most garish plugs; plaid. Clove noticed with delight that they almost matched his van. Cato greeted her with a smile and a hug, which should not have surprised her as much as it did.

“You’re late. And you smell like beer.” Clove said into his shirt.

“Washed my clothes in it, sort of.” Cato replied, letting her go. “There were some stains I needed to get out, so I got creative.”

Clove stood back, impressed. “Clever. Ready to meet the family?”

“Don’t I look ready?” He spun around, showing off his artfully crumpled ensemble once more.

“As ever.” Clove took his hand. It didn’t feel right, but she fought through the awkward. It was time for the curtain to rise.

 

_PHASE ONE_

 

Cato’s first impression went awfully well—Clove could also say it went, well, awfully—especially when, upon meeting Carver, her fake boyfriend bent down to kiss her hand before introducing himself. Clove’s parents looked pretty uncomfortable, and Carver as well, but none were so outraged as Carver’s husband, especially when Cato continued to flirt with her under the guise of offering to lend a hand in the kitchen.

“Cato’s a line cook,” Clove told the quiet man as he seethed, considering the fact that they might have to prepare for a fight after all, and that Cato might not be the one who started it.

After the introductions had been made, she took a moment to leave Cato to his own devices. Sipping her second glass of the night, Clove made rounds in the living room, making obligatory conversation with older relatives who loved to dwell on the uselessness of her degree in studio art. Said older relatives, as expected, were distracted from Clove’s jobless, loveless life and avant-garde hairstyle by her new beau, and she relished their skeptical comments. For the first time since poor Keith’s plus one, they had someplace else to aim their criticisms.

She came to check on Cato later in the kitchen, where he was busy spilling ingredients all over the floor and counter. He jumped when she called his name, looking as if he’d just been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“This,” he remarked, his T-shirt white with flour. “was actually an accident, believe it or not.”

“How’s the flirting going for you?” Clove asked, eager to get an update. And a beer, if there were any in the fridge. “Anyone interested?”

Cato smiled, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Not Carver. Not your mom—”

Clove’s eyes went wide. “My _mom?_ ”

“I am not a good person.” Cato responded coolly. “Didn't work on Keith, either, but I think he’s also spoken for. All’s not lost, though. I feel like that one cousin, the blonde one, I think she likes me. _She_ started flirting with _me_ first.” He looked proud as he stirred together some sort of batter in a bowl.

Clove frowned. “The blonde one…Wait, Jetta?”

“Yeah! That’s her name. She’s pretty hot, right?”

“Uh, she’s also fifteen.” Cato almost dropped his bowl.

“What the FUCK.” he choked, horrified. “She is not.”

“She is. What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing, I swear! I just, I feel gross now. You should’ve warned me.”

Clove sighed. “Yeah, that’s a little farther than I’m willing to stretch here. She’ll come back. Just try to avoid talking to her again.”

“Yeah. Jesus.” Cato ran a hand through his blond hair, leaving a splotch of flour on his forehead.

“Hey.” said Clove. “Have you done this before?”

“Nope,” Cato replied. “First time crashing a stranger’s Thanksgiving, first time trying to cheat on my fake girlfriend.”

“And with a much younger woman, too. Am I not enough for you?”

Cato gave a nervous laugh. “Don’t joke about that. It’s terrifying.”

“Why?”

“Because if I was really your boyfriend and I really unknowingly wooed your teenage cousin behind your back, I’d really be forty different kinds of fucked right now.”

Oddly, Clove found this funny. “Thought you liked this kind of stuff. The excitement.”

“Like I said, first-time flyer! I’m figuring it all out as I go.” He set down his bowl on the flour-covered countertop. "Keith tells me you're an artist. Is that true?"

Clove nodded. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, you two seem pretty close. I thought he might be in on it. You didn't tell him, did you?"

"No," Clove almost laughed. "I love him, but he can't keep a secret. This is between you and me."

"That's...really cool." Cato seemed surprised when she looked confused. "That you're an artist, I mean! Okay if I ask what kind of art you make? I don't want to pry or anything, but since we're fake dating, I should probably know what your job is."

“Oh.” Clove looked at him. “I'm a sculptor. I sell most of my art online. Can I ask you something, too?"

"Fire away."

"You seem so prepared for this, it's hard to believe you haven't done anything like this before. Why did you start now?"

“Didn’t think of it until now.”

“I don’t believe that!”

Cato gave her a half-grin. “Well, what about you? You haven’t done this before either, as far as I can tell. What made _you_ want to do this now?”

Clove stopped short for a moment, considering. Why _was_ she doing this? Certainly it wouldn’t impact her family in any lasting way. Sure, there was less attention on her faults now, and less on Carver’s merits. But next year she’d surely be back in the interrogation room again, just like always. She at least enjoyed the spontaneity of it all, she guessed. The chaos.

So she shrugged. “Maybe I just needed a break.”

 

_PHASE TWO_

 

As the finished meal brought everyone to the table, Clove had the opportunity to introduce her fake boyfriend to the rest of the family. But Cato figured out her father’s political beliefs within two sentences of meeting him, and from there on out there was no time between argumentative tirades for him to meet anyone else. It was all immigration and taxes and social justice, and Cato was great at it. The kicker was, Clove had no idea what Cato’s actual political beliefs were; just that he was happy to pick a fight about someone else’s. She found herself wondering why the line cook had dropped out of high school when he could have done so well on the debate team.

“Your boyfriend sure is…opinionated.” Keith decided. “But it’s kind of nice that someone’s standing up to Uncle Arthur. Uh, no offense.”

Clove shrugged. “None taken. I think it’s a shame I couldn’t have brought him by sooner.”

Keith laughed a little. “Yeah. Bet they’re both buckets of fun around election time.” This thought was too much for Clove to bear; she dissolved into laughter.

After a few more minutes of this, Great Aunt Etna managed to quiet them down long enough to suggest a prayer before they started the meal. This only seemed to set Cato off again. Just as Clove remembered the religious side to this part of the plan, he leaned over to her, took her hand in his, and whispered in a voice just loud enough for the rest of the table to hear.

“God doesn’t give a shit about our problems, Clove. If he did, he wouldn’t have let Aunt Etna burn the turkey!”

Before he leaned back from her, he handed over his full glass of wine.

 

_PHASE THREE_

 

Over the course of the meal, Cato’s voice got good and slurred. It was a very smooth transition; very subtle. If Clove hadn’t been constantly switching their glasses under the table, drinking some and spilling others, she would have believed his act in full. The funniest part of watching the line cook laugh and rant like this was the fact that he was dead sober. Unlike Clove, who’d herself gotten a little hazy from sneaking Cato’s glasses.

Cato told his present company his entire life story in about an hour—whether or not any of it was true, Clove didn’t actually know. It made everyone very uncomfortable, of course, but at least Aunt Cecily hadn’t brought up her veganism; at least Carver hadn’t noted how many slices of pumpkin pie Keith had eaten; at least Clove’s roommate search was kept out of the conversation.

Halfway through dessert, Cato decided it was a good idea to bring back the flirting of Phase One, only louder this time. He reached across the table, nearly knocking over the candles to offer his glass to Carver.

“Have a drink, beautiful!” he slurred, shoving the wine in her face. Carver, looking disgusted—honestly, at this point, who wouldn’t be?—pushed the glass away.

“No thank you, Cato.” she said graciously. “I can’t drink right now. In fact, I won’t be able to for a while…”

_Oh HELL no._

“Carver?” Clove’s mom was suddenly listening. “What do you mean by that?”

“I was going to wait until after dinner!” Carver’s smile burst through as she stood to address the entire family. “But I can’t. I’m just too excited!”

“Oh, say it isn’t so.” Clove heard Keith mutter. Cato, still standing, was the only one left who looked confused.

“I’m pregnant!” Carver exclaimed, and the room exploded.

Clove sat back in her chair, pouring herself another glass of wine. Finally with some good news to grab onto rather than focus on the T-shirt-clad felon Clove had presented them with, the family was all over her perfect sister again. If anything, Cato’s dreadfulness probably made their reaction to Carver’s happy announcement even more extreme. Which meant that Clove was the useless, unsuccessful sister once more. She felt unbalanced, invisible, like only half of her plan was working in her favor.

The wine helped stabilize her feelings. Now, she had to steady her plan.

“Hey!” Clove took Cato’s wrist and pulled him behind her until they reached the kitchen. Hazy and convinced someone would hear, Clove would not stop until they both had squeezed into the pantry and shut the door behind them. Cato was nearly doubled over, trying not to hit his head on the slanted ceiling.

“We need to do better.” Clove led with the problem. “Much better.”

Cato blinked, flipping on the lights. “Right. What do we do?”

“I think you’re going to have to get drunk. Like, for real drunk.” Clove told him, blinking faster so he’d come back into focus.

“I’m not doing that. Remember our agreement?”

“Augh, don’t be a buzzkill. C’mon, even Jetta’s had a sip.” Clove held her glass out to him. Cato didn’t move.

“Clove, I said no.” Clove pushed the glass further, trying to pour some into his mouth.

“Clove!” Cato spat, elbowing her away. For the first time, Clove experienced his anger. Just for an instant, there was a flash of rage from behind those nice blue eyes. The glass fell from her hands, shattering on the ground.

“Shit.” she heard him say. Suddenly, Clove felt tears burning at her eyes. She fought bitterly to keep them there.

“You were supposed to stay sober, too.” Cato pointed out when he noticed, struggling to keep his voice level. “This isn’t going to work if—”

“I just don’t see what the big deal is!” Clove blew up before she could stop herself. “It’s _not_ working, Cato! Anything I say, whatever I do, she always has to one-up me! It’s always been like this!” It only took a moment after that for her to realize how bad it all sounded. Disgusted with herself, she buried her face in her hands.

“I wanted to help you.” Cato said through his teeth, holding onto the wall of the pantry. “But not like this. Never like this.”

“What?” Clove blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Thank God we’re not really dating, that’s what I mean.” Kicking himself a path through the shattered glass, Cato turned and pushed through the door of the pantry, through the door of the kitchen, through the door of the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, things are pretty much shit. Luckily, I’m hoping to resolve said shit in the third and final chapter of Shitsgiving. Thanks to those of you who have stuck around, and also to those of you just joining me. Drop me a line if you can in the comment box, I appreciate every word.


	3. Adam And The Ants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cato and Clove decide whether or not it's worth it to finish their game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand! Just kidding. About the popular demand part, anyway, it really is back. Hope you enjoy the final installment of whatever this is.

Clove stayed in the pantry until she was sure no one could tell she’d been crying. Then she burst through the door, startling Uncle Sten, who’d probably just come into the kitchen for a beer or a snack. As she moved further into the house, it didn’t look like anyone had been wondering where she’d gone.

As she tried to pass through the dining room unnoticed—easy with everyone crowded around Carver—her sister spotted her.

“Clove!” she waved her over. “Come and feel the baby!” Multiple relatives were already crouched down to stomach level, lining up to violate her sister’s personal space, and Clove was in no rush to be one of them.

She stayed where she was. “You’re not showing yet. Unless you’re growing some kind of demon spawn in there, they’re not feeling anything right now.”

Carver blinked. “What is wrong with you?”

“I felt it kick!” shrieked Jetta. Clove’s headache got worse.

“I’m…I’m not feeling well.” It was the truth. “I need some air.”

Clove grabbed the doorknob and turned it. No one stopped her.

On the other side of the front door, a light snow was falling over the icy grass, the quiet street. The sky was dark, dotted with pinprick stars that looked very, very far away. The pounding in her head had lessened slightly. She thought the nicest part was the silence, the absence of all those voices.

That is, until she saw the garishly painted van blocking the neighbors’ driveway.

_He’s still here._

Clove drew her shawl around her, protecting her bare shoulders from the snow. She hiked up her skirt and came down the porch steps, leaving boot-prints in the thin layer of new snow. When she reached the van, she realized that the engine wasn’t running, and no one was in the driver’s seat.

A few dull noises told her that someone was in the back. She knocked, and after a second the door swung open.

“H-hey there.” Again with that look, like he’d been caught red handed. Cato was shivering, even wrapped in a thick black jacket covered in colored patches.

“What are you doing here?” Clove asked, her head hurting. “Turn on the car, at least.”

“D-don’t want to risk driving,” he said, hugging his elbows. “With alcohol in my system.”

Clove blinked. “You barely had any—”

“You’re letting the cold in.” Cato accused her.

Sighing, Clove sat down in the empty back, bringing her legs up so that Cato could shut the door, trapping what was left of the warmth inside. Clove was still cold; now it was just dark and smelled like stale fast food.

“I got carried away.” Cato broke the silence. “I always fuck things up. I’m sorry. I never should have come. I never should have put up that stupid ad in the first place.”

“No, hold on.” Clove would have touched his arm if she could have found it. “Don’t say that. This was my fault. I said those things, I made you drink. It was…It was unfair, and I was being selfish.” Clove couldn’t see his expression, so there was nothing from the other side but the sound of his breathing.

She smoothed her long skirt over her knees and hugged them to her chest. “I didn’t realize it was so important to you. I should have listened. I’m so sorry, Cato.”

More silence.

“Cato?” Clove wasn’t sure if he couldn’t find words, or didn’t want to. She probably deserved his silence. She suffered through a minute more of it before she finally reached for the door.

“I lied.” She almost didn’t hear it.

“What?”

“I lied about what I did.” Cato said quickly. “I mean, I’ve gotten into plenty of bar fights, sure, but that’s not what I was charged with.”

Clove sat back down, looking across the van at the line cook she met on Craigslist. Telling herself that—under the circumstances of their meeting—she shouldn’t be surprised. That hardly stopped her.

“What did you do?” It was his business, she told herself, not hers. But ever since they’d met, it had been harder to take her inner voice seriously. Things were just so…upside down.

She saw him shift as her eyes adjusted to the light. “I told you, before.”

“Told me…” Oh. Oh no. He did tell her. In Clove’s current state, it was hard to remember the past few days. But one thing stood out, crystal clear.

_How does vehicular homicide sound?_

“You _hit_ someone.” Clove breathed. “with your car?”

“I was eighteen.” Cato whispered. “I was stupid. I was hammered.”

“You hit someone with your car.”

“He died.” Cato wasn’t looking at her.

“ _This_ car?” It was hard to imagine the lurid colors of the Van Halen van being the last thing someone ever saw.

“No, not this one.” In the dark, Cato shook his head. “Not ever, this one.”

Clove looked at him. “You haven’t touched a drop since, have you?”

The longest silence from the line cook.

“Cato?”

“I have.” he admitted without meeting Clove’s eyes. “But in the last six years, never.” He blew warm air into his hands and rubbed them together. “Until today, anyway.” Neither of them continued the conversation, the cold silence pressing down on both of them. It was a while before Clove regained the courage to speak.

“Today doesn’t count.” she said. Cato was unconvinced.

“I’ll decide what counts and what doesn’t.”

“But it’s as easy as that, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. If I decide that today doesn’t count,” Cato said, his volume rising. “what’s stopping me from deciding that tomorrow doesn’t count, either? Or the next day? Or the day after that? Or—”

“Stop!” Clove told him. “Okay. I…I understand. I’ll get Keith to drive you home.” This time, her hand found the door handle and popped it open, allowing the frigid night air to seep inside again. Cato drew his jacket closer around him.

“I don't want to bother Keith.” Clove heard his voice behind her as her boots hit the sidewalk. “He’s the one decent family member you have, isn’t he?”

Clove turned around. “He’s certainly the only one I can stand to be around for more than a few hours at a time.”

More silence. It looked like he was about to shut the door again.

“Why?”

“What do they all do on a normal Thanksgiving that made you want to bring someone like me into the picture?”

After their last conversation, Clove didn’t feel like talking about her problems. “It’s stupid.”

“Not to you.”

She frowned, hesitating. “They’d compare me to Carver, mostly. Make me feel low. Ask me questions that force me to confess how poorly I’m adjusting to having to support myself.” She shrugged, looking down at the sidewalk. “It’s all pretty unimportant, actually.”

“You don’t have to look at it that way.”

“How am I supposed to look at it?” Clove looked at him. “What I’m doing to them now, it just seems so _petty_ , after all of this. We went through all this trouble to what, get my family to leave me alone for a night? It was dumb.”

Cato shrugged, and Clove couldn’t look at him anymore. She turned to the light in the windows of her home, to the family inside. They certainly weren’t looking for her.

Clove hugged her elbows. “ _C’est la vie_ , right? When all of this is over, I’m still not going to have a good job. My art isn’t going to suddenly start selling, I’m not going to fall in love with someone or pay off my student loans, or have a decent place to live. This prank isn’t going to change anything. I feel stupid for thinking it would.”

After that, the cold started to get to her. Clove wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, protecting them from the bite of the wind. Shivering still, Cato offered her his big coat; she told him he looked like he needed it more. Despite the chill, they both stayed where they were.

“It was all just a game, wasn’t it?” Cato said eventually. “I only meant for it to be fun.”

“Well, what are games for?” Clove agreed. “And you’re right. It was. I had a good time tonight.”

“The one uncle’s face when I almost dropped the turkey.” Cato prompted. Clove’s face split into a grin.

“When you tried to hold Carver’s hand!” she laughed. They had made some pretty good memories, before the evening had turned sour. Suddenly, the night air didn’t seem so cold anymore.

“I should go back inside.” said Clove, though she might have stayed out in the snow all night. “To rescue Keith.” Cato nodded, busying himself by retying the laces of his beat-up converse; getting ready to leave.

“Do you want me to bring you out anything?” she offered. “Blanket, food?”

“Nah, that’s fine.” He shook his head. “I won’t stick around for much longer.”

She looked at him again; really looked at him, in all of his metal studs and ripped clothes glory. He’s going to get frostbite all around those stupid plaid plugs, was the only thing she seemed to be thinking. That, and reminding herself to Google _Adam And The Ants_ when she got back inside _._ Something kept her from thinking of what he had told her, the same thing that urged her to turn and leave without saying anything. The word _goodbye_ was on her lips, but for some reason, she struggled to let it reach him.

Instead, she said, “Thank you.”

He looked up. “For what? I ruined your Thanksgiving.” Said with the smug, shit-eating grin she remembered from the day they met.

“It’s kind of the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The grin remained. “Told you, I’m in it for the food.”

“Get out of here.” Clove couldn’t help but smile, too.

As she walked up the porch steps, hearing the van start behind her, her smile endured.

 

_PHASE FOUR_

 

Well, that was the end of Clove’s night. She went back inside, where only Keith had noticed her absence. She failed to avoid some more relatives, who all saw immediately that Cato wasn’t there. She informed anyone who cared about her breakup with Cato, and received some unwelcome half-assed sympathy that prevented her from sharing the “news” with anyone else. Then she checked her emails, had some more pumpkin pie, and felt Carver’s nonexistent baby bump, because, why the hell not?

Clove and Keith ended the night on the couch with plates of pie and ice cream in their laps, watching the critically ignored Lifetime movie _Giving Thanks, Thanks Giving._

“So Benji canceled their tickets? What a piece of shit.” Keith said with his mouth full. “How are the Johnsons supposed to have Thanksgiving when they’re stuck at the airport?”

“I think they’ll manage.” Clove replied. She wasn’t paying much attention to the movie.

_Knock, knock_.

“Was that from the TV?”

“I don’t think so.” Clove stood, setting down her plate. “I’ll get it.”

“Who is that, honey?” Her mother called from the dining room, where most of the family had gathered for seconds and thirds.

“Don’t know.” No sooner had she unlocked the door than it burst open by itself, revealing the line cook in his black jacket, his hair a mess.

“Cato!” Clove jumped back as he barreled past her without explaining himself. “What are you doing?!”

“What I should have done two hours and forty five minutes ago!” Cato exclaimed without turning back, making a beeline for the dining room. Clove and Keith looked at each other with alarm, and then rushed to follow him, hearing the astonished exclamations of their relatives.

“Everyone quiet down, settle down!” Cato was saying. “I have an announcement to make!” He’d dropped the drunk act entirely, Clove noticed, but none of her family members seemed to make this observation. Everyone was a bit too startled that he’d shown up again in the first place.

“What’s going on, Cato?” Clove asked, more confused than anything. Cato smiled then, as if seeing her there for the first time.

“Spit it out, boy!” protested Great Aunt Etna. Carver and her husband looked concerned.

“MR. AND MRS. MALONE, I AM IN LOVE WITH YOUR DAUGHTER!” Cato announced, finding Clove’s parents in the group. “I AM ONE HUNDRED PERCENT, COMPLETELY, ABSOLUTELY IN LOVE WITH HER.”

“It’s _Mallon_.” Clove’s father corrected him.

“MR. AND MRS. MALLON—” Cato began again, unfazed.

“Stop, stop!” Clove’s father had had enough. “You can’t just barge in here and announce your love for my daughter! What are we supposed to say to that? Clove told us she just broke up with you!”

“Is that so?” Cato gave Clove a sideways glance, and she had to fight back a smile. “Well, does THIS look like a breakup to you?!”

Without warning, Cato grabbed the edge of the tablecloth and whisked it out from under the plates and silverware like a magician. Except, unlike a magician, quite a few plates and forks came crashing down with it. Cato remained nonplussed, tying the tablecloth around his neck like a cape and getting down on one knee in front of Clove. He patted around his jacket pockets for a moment before smacking his palm to his forehead and picking up a lone napkin ring from the carpet.

“Clove Abigail Mallon—”

“That’s not my middle name.”

“Clove Mallon! Will you marry me?” The line cook looked up at her, his eyes sparkling. For a moment, Clove’s heart lifted, and she wondered if this was what it was really like to be proposed to. Minus the napkin ring and the appalled family members, that is.

Slowly, cashing in on the suspense, Clove took the napkin ring from Cato’s hand, examining it in the light.

“Will _you_ buy a less awful van?” she asked him.

“Absolutely not, my love.”

“Not even for _me_?” Clove said in mock-surprise.

“Okay, uh, maybe.” Cato muttered. “Do you want to be my wife or not?”

“I think I want that in writing."

“Say ‘I do’, dammit!” he cried.

“Fine, Cato! Yes!” Clove exclaimed as he stood. “I do!”

For the second time that night, the room exploded. Everyone has to clap whenever a proposal happens, no matter who it involves; it’s just part of the laws of the universe. To their credit, no matter how zealously Clove’s family applauded the happy couple, their expressions remained the same: sheer astonishment.

It was more than Clove ever could have asked for.

 

_PHASE FIVE_

 

Clove walked Cato out after that, with a slice of pie for the road. He had to return the cape.

“You came back.” For some reason, Clove couldn’t stop smiling.

Cato grinned at her as they went down the porch steps. “I had to finish our performance.”

“Like you said, it was really more of a game.”

“Well, I think we won.” Cato beamed at her.

She laughed. “I think we did.”

“Let’s see your sister top that at Christmas.” Cato chuckled to himself as he climbed into the driver’s seat of his horrible striped van. When he closed the door, Clove leaned up against the glass until he rolled down the window.

“I actually don’t think she’ll manage.”

“She might.” Cato teased.

“Doubtful.”

“I don’t see why the rules of this game shouldn’t allow rematches.”

“It’s too late.” Clove leaned in. “Game’s over.”

Then her lips met his. It was a brief kiss, one that left Clove beet red and Cato looking vaguely shocked.

“You’re a little drunk, still.” he mumbled, more to himself than to Clove. “That must be why you did that.”

“I won’t be tomorrow.” Clove offered. “Would you call me or something?”

“You don’t mean that. After what I told y—”

“I do.” Clove looked at him earnestly.

After a moment, the line cook’s smile returned, just slightly at first. “You know, that's the second time you’ve said that to me tonight.”

Clove let out a laugh. “Fuck you, Bailor! You really know how to ruin a moment.” She backed away from the awful van, folding her arms.

“That’s what I’m here for!” Cato grinned, starting the engine. “You taste like pumpkin pie!”

“Get lost!” Clove laughed.

As goodbyes went, this one wasn’t the worst she’d ever had. It wasn’t at all painful or uncertain. To say the least, Clove had never expected she would be so sad to watch a van painted like Eddie van Halen’s guitar, of all absurd things, driving away from her. But it turned and vanished at the end of the street, and it didn’t come back this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! This story is a mess and so am I.


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